Let it Be Me
by Trogdor19
Summary: A fix-it from the end of 04x02, when Logan shows back up at the apartment with blood on his shirt. My version of how that scene could have gone. [Part 2 of the New and Improved S4 series, all stand alone stories]


_Author's Note: __The New and Improved S4 series is a collection of stories that each start with the canon of a S4 episode and "fix" it until I like the results better. They can all be read as stand alones, and they all start in canon and end in AU (but not the same AU)._

_Not all episodes will have stories, and some episodes will require multi-chapter fixes. My goal is to take back our joy in S4 from He Who Shall Not Be Named!_

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**Let It Be Me**

* * *

**Veronica**

"Hey gang." My boyfriend slides through the apartment door with his usual casual grace, completely covered in blood.

"Logan, oh my God!"

My eyes go over him fast, but his face is perfect as ever, no cuts or swelling. He's moving fine and he's relaxed, not tensed against any bruise or ache I can't see. Which means he wasn't in a fight, he was on the inflicting end of a _slaughter._

The usual, for Logan.

The usual, for me, is that I don't know whether to be relieved, proud, or concerned.

"Don't worry," he says lightly, seeing the look on my face. "I got the check."

My mouth drops wider open. Jesus Christ, did the congressman try to stiff him on the payment and Logan lost it at him? He's got that quick, anything-might-happen unpredictability about his voice that he used to have 24-7 in college. Except his face is still Zen-post-therapy Logan. But his eyes…

"I didn't want you to murder him for it!" I protest.

I remember his voice on the phone. His only answer to me asking for a favor at the worst moment in relationship history was a quick, sincere exhale of "_Anything_."

If Logan was cracking, this is exactly how he'd break. Into extreme violence on my behalf, with his heart in the right place, and his judgement exactly in the wrong one.

I don't realize my hand has gone up until I feel it pressing hard over my heart like it can physically depress the racing of my pulse. I swallow against a dry mouth, trying to switch gears from _Holy fuck, he's hurt_ to _Holy fuck, he might have really hurt someone else, and it's my fault._

"Logan, whose blood is that?" Dad asks, as off-balance as I am.

Logan opens the fridge. "Some hillbillys. So, guess what?" He changes the subject as if he didn't just say he was sprayed in the blood of a complete stranger that doesn't even have anything to _do_ with the check or the congressman. I can't feel my hands, my face, my whole body.

What have I done to him?

"We're kind of like co-workers now," he's saying. "I just accepted a job as the head of Congressman Maloof's one-man security detail."

He takes a sip of beer and Dad and I swap a stunned look.

"What?" Logan smirks. "Can't a guy play a little good Samaritan without scaring the in-laws? You know, it's kind of cute, I've always wondered if it was possible to render a Mars speechless. Here I've gotten the two-for-one without even trying."

He makes a little _ding ding_ sound like a slot machine paying out big.

"This hillbilly," Dad ventures. "Did he have the body of a brick shithouse, or the brain of one?"

Logan tilts his head quickly. "Both, actually. There were two of them. The blood belonged to Brick Body. Brick Brain didn't even really make me break a sweat."

"Speaking of in-laws, there's a bit of a familial dispute over Maloof's late fiancé's engagement ring," Dad says to me. "The hillbillies are her family. They nearly came to blows over it in the police station earlier today, actually. I had to break it up. Before the sheriff threw me out like a loitering bum, that is."

Logan clucks his tongue. "If it makes you feel any better, she gave the same treatment to Jennifer Aniston during that domestic dispute in the Grand's rooftop bar last spring break. She's an equal opportunity hater, our fine sheriff is."

"You sure you're all right?" my dad asks, crossing the kitchen to take Logan's arm and check him over for cracked ribs or busted knuckles.

A wave of shame shakes through me that I didn't think to do it first. Except when I take a step, I end up sinking down on the arm of the couch instead because my knees aren't up to the challenge.

"I'm aces," Logan says. "Been needing a hobby to keep me busy in my stateside time, and cracking hillbilly heads beats golf with the Dicks by a mile."

"Okay…" Dad says slowly, dodging me a look. "I'll get out of your hair, since everything's fine. But be careful, Logan. There's something off about that Congressman."

"Mmm, I know it. Fortunately, I have the ears for the job." Logan flicks the shell of his ear. I know he's self-conscious about how prominent the military haircut makes them look, and I hate it when he pokes fun at himself. "I'll keep you posted, sir."

"Good, good." Dad looks back to me. "Enjoy your twittering, dear. See you in the morning."

He pats my shoulder, and I try to look like I'm not about to throw up as he closes the door behind him.

"I wonder what I should wear for my first day on the job," Logan muses, his head back in the fridge. He comes out with a dill pickle and snaps a bite. "The Secret Service always goes for Brooks Brothers, but suits have such a limited range of motion."

"Little tip? Don't wear your Armani. Politicians hate it when they find out their bodyguards are richer than they are."

"You know," he says, and points the pickle at me. "I'm not totally sure why you look so mad about this. This works out great, actually. You don't trust the guy, and now I can keep an eye on him for you."

"I don't know, could have been the shock of seeing my boyfriend come in covered in _blood_." My voice comes out sharp, the way everything seems to these days. I bounce off the couch, my knees suddenly strengthened by my rush of indignation. "Or it could be because that Congressman's brother was possibly the main target of this bomb, and if he was, the subject might try again. Maybe I don't want you stuck in the middle of what could be a fatally dangerous situation, obligated to protect some asshole we don't know from Adam."

"I'll fend them off with my rapier wit and devastating charm." He chomps the rest of the pickle and grins. "And if that doesn't work, I'll break their elbows."

He comes across the kitchen and catches my hand, giving me a little twirl that only makes me madder.

I snatch my hand away and glare at him. He tilts his head. "And how was your day, dear?"

"Clearly not as good as yours. I forgot that violence puts you in such a good mood." I stomp past him and open the refrigerator, though I don't even know why, because I couldn't stuff food past the lump in my throat to save my life. Then I remember I already made a salad for dinner and left it…somewhere in the apartment.

"I've always wanted to say that somebody sent me to bust some kneecaps and collect the cash," he muses. "It really boosts my bad boy street cred, don't you think?"

"Logan, you didn't…" I make an effort to soften my voice, so I don't sound like I'm accusing him of anything. "I mean, you did _have_ to beat up those guys, right?"

"Sure! Possibly, I could have let them knife me instead, but the cleaning deposit at the Grand is outrageous when you get blood on the rug. At least, it used to be." His voice is still light, but I can see the edge of hurt creep into his dark eyes.

"Hey." I reach for him. "It just scared me, okay? Seeing you come in all covered in blood. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"You mean you want to make sure I'm not going off the rails like I did back in college?" He flashes me a quick, pained smile. "Answer: read the police report. Clear self-defense. I even fired a warning shot—the Grand's taste in vases hasn't gotten any prettier, by the way. They are durable, though, so that's nice. What about you, threatened any mobsters with deadly weapons lately? As I recall, that was your going-off-the-rails MO in college."

I glance down, remembering the surge of viciousness that ran through me to see Liam Fitzpatrick's face in the sights of my pistol today.

"Something must have happened today," he prods more gently. "You called me to talk about your feelings. You oughta warn me when you're going to do things like that—Dick's done too many uppers for his heart to take the shock."

"It was nothing. There's this little girl on the case, she got me thinking, and then I—I know I've been lashing out a lot," I say, remembering the people sitting on my hood, that pouty teenager's chips I threw in the trash when I was interviewing his mother.

"Yeah, I was up-to-date on that part." He shrugs. "Nothing I didn't expect, though I think traditionally, the jilted one is the one who's supposed to get passive-aggressive."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not trying to be passive-aggressive. I hate that shit. I just have…this pit in my stomach like something really bad's about to happen. Bomber's probably not helping."

"Mm-hmm."

My head snaps up. "Since when do you mm-hmm me? Logan, I am glad you're seeing a therapist. I'm definitely glad you're getting so much out of it, but can you please talk to me like you're my partner and not my shrink?"

"Sorry." He grunts loudly instead. "I think that's the boyfriend translation of, I'm listening, tell me more."

I roll my eyes. "Never mind." I turn and head to find my phone so I can Twitter follow the stupid pizza boy who fancies himself a private eye.

"No, hey." Logan sets down his beer, almost missing the counter in his haste, and catches my arm. "I'm sorry. I'm flying high on adrenaline, but I don't mean to be a sarcastic asshole. It just comes a little too naturally to me."

He turns me back to face him, his eyes soft and serious now, not sparking with that fierce, satisfied light like they have been since he came in from the fight.

"You called and said you wanted to talk when we got home. I've had a police report and an ambulance call since then, but I'm home now, and I still want to talk." He brushes my hair back so he can see my face. "What did you have to say?"

His hands are so gentle on my arms and I remember what it was like between us before the proposal. When home was the one place I could say whatever the fuck I thought, and not worry that anybody would think I was a cynical bitch. I let myself lean a little further into him. I can't stand this walking-on-eggshells feeling of not knowing if we're going to be okay.

"I don't _know_," I whisper. "That's the thing, I know there's something fucked up in me, and I know I've felt horrible since you proposed, and I don't know why, or where to go from there, okay?" Even that comes out whip-crack sharp and defensive, and I hate myself for how _hard _I've gotten.

"I do," he says quietly. "But I don't think you want me to tell you."

I grit my teeth. I don't want to get into this again.

"Logan, the marriage thing…it's not that I don't love you, okay?"

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Okay…"

He tugs on my hands, walking backwards until he can sink onto the couch and I'm the taller one for once. He widens his knees so he can pull me in close, his thumbs stroking softly over the backs of my hands.

"That pit in your stomach? I think it's because you're waiting for me to leave."

I nip in a little breath, but it feels like it has no oxygen in it and my vision wavers as tears jump to my eyes. I gave him the opening, _dammit_, to tell me he's going to go. To find some beautiful, sunny-smiling Navy wife who will give him beautiful, tall babies, and stay home to paint his picket fence, and never pull guns on Irish mobsters.

Logan goes on, his voice low and deep. "Because you think if you won't marry me, I'm going to get mad and leave, or fly off the rails and do something crazy, and it'll be your fault."

I blink hard, immediately annoyed that he thinks I'm so predictable. It's not like I'm being an irrational asshole—every time in the past we've run into a snag, that's exactly what happened. I'm not accusing, I'm just extrapolating from the clues at hand.

"I mean, it's not _out _of the realm of possibility," I venture. "Though I don't think that's the MO for Pod Logan. I just don't know what Pod Logan does in situations like these."

His hands stay steady on mine, but the corner of his mouth twists downward. "It hurts when you say stuff like that, you know?"

Pain jerks through my chest and then I'm fucking apologizing. Again. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean it like that." I pause. "But don't you feel it? Like, this distance…like we're not connecting the way we used to."

"We connected just fine before I proposed."

I glance down, letting my hair swing forward over my face. "I know."

"Don't feel guilty for saying what you really felt. I'd rather you do that than you accept and feel like I trapped you into something you didn't want. You know me better than that." He tugs me closer, laying my hands on his shoulders so his can cradle my hips. "Veronica, I'm not going anywhere. I proposed because I want to be with you, no one else. Forever. You saying no to a wedding doesn't change that."

I can't even swallow, I'm fighting so hard not to cry. My hands begin to tremble on his shoulders. I hate that he even has to tell me this, that even _now_ I don't have any idea what to say back to him. To comfort him the way he's comforting me.

His jaw is steady and strong, and his gaze doesn't waver even while I can barely meet his eyes. "I'm not the kind of guy who is going to take off because his ego is bruised. And there's nothing _wrong_ with you, Veronica, not the way you keep saying there is." He takes a breath. "But you…"

I take a step back, my hands falling. "What?"

He hooks a finger in my belt loop so I can't flee any further, his thumb stroking over denim. The feeling of it sparkles all the way down the front of my legs. God, one touch from him tips me off balance like nothing else on this earth.

I can't bear it when we fight like this. Not all fire and laughter and disagreeing like we love to do, but when we really _fight._

"Please don't get defensive when I say this, okay? Remember that I fucking _love_ you, today and every day." His steady therapist voice has gone rough and it makes my ears sharpen, listening like I can really believe him now. He's a creature made up of emotion, Logan is, and I don't know the new version of him that also has logic, and calculation, and better judgement. "Not in spite of what you're like, but _because_ of what you're like."

"Yeah, this long lead-in is not freaking me out at all."

"You're stiffer, or something," he rushes out. "Like you're so used to being let down that you want to strike back first, but then you're just striking out all the time no matter what's happening. I might have known somebody like that once, you remember?"

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth tipping up like he's trying to coax me to smile with him.

"And if I _had_ an adorable teen detective I could trot out who would teach you it's okay to rely on other people, I would…but I don't. I just have me. And the harder I try to be there for you, the more ferociously you push me away." His voice goes low, shaking a little. "I'm not one of the people in the world just waiting for an opening to hurt you, Veronica."

"Jesus!" I burst out, reaching for him and gripping his arms. "I know that, Logan, why would you think that?"

He doesn't answer.

"You think that because I act like that," I say for him, the words tasting as bitter as the truth. "But that's why I said I was broken, because I don't know how to _stop_."

His mouth twists a little sadly, and he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't dare.

Because I've made it so he's not safe to agree with me or disagree. My fault, again. I sigh. "You're going to say go to therapy and they have all the answers, right?"

"No. But they can help you figure out what _your_ answer is." He stands and starts to pull me close, then grimaces at the blood on his shirt and pulls off both shirt and hoodie. He drops them on the ground before cradling my face in his hands. "Listen, love, if a therapist can help _me_ relax and be more in control of what I do, to understand why I'm doing what I'm doing? They can help you, no problem. You're not half the head case I was."

I drop my face into his chest, and it's a little tacky with sweat but the perfect amount of firm but soft. My mouth twists hard as I fight back tears. I wish I believed that he was the messed up one, but I don't. Not anymore.

He's not the one who has to apologize every time he opens his mouth, whose instincts have him leaping to ruin the best thing in his life, over and over and fucking _over_ again.

He wraps his arms over my shoulders, around my back, and then rocks me so softly I can't even hate him for it.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I manage to squeak out, my voice cracking. "I've been a righteous bitch ever since you got back even though I missed you like crazy."

"Mmm, depends. I can tell you, but I don't think you like all that girly feelings talk."

I laugh in spite of myself, my shoulders shaking weakly. "Maybe I can take a _little _feelings talk. We still have a hole in our cupboard, and your knuckles look like you went five rounds with Rocky Balboa, so I don't think you're in danger of going soft anytime soon."

He pulls back and drapes his arms over my shoulder, gives me a crooked little smile with warm brown eyes. "Okay, you want to put your running shoes on first, though? Maybe get your keys so you don't forget them on the way out the door?"

"Very funny, Logan."

He shrugs. "Hey, you asked for it." He gathers me close again, humming in his chest so the vibration spills all the way through my body. I huff out a breath, then another like my ribs have locked hard and his warmth is turning them soft and pliable again.

"I'm here for you," he says. "Even when you don't want me to see that you need someone here for you. I don't think less of you because you sometimes get upset. And I'm never going to leave you. I just won't."

I suck in a breath and my head whirls. He said it, just like that.

_Never._

Like that's something anybody could ever know, or promise. But something in me aches for the steadiness in that word, like somehow _he_ can know.

I want to believe him. I know I shouldn't.

"Not if you take too many dangerous cases, not if you work 24-7," he says. "Not if you never marry me, or if you marry and divorce me forty-six times. This, what we have?" Logan kisses my forehead, a gentle reassurance like he gave me at Dick's movie premiere, when Big Dick basically rolled out the conversational red carpet for him to complain about what a commitment-phobic bitch I am. "What we have is _real_, and you can call me your boyfriend or your domestic partner, or your sex slave. It won't change the fact that I love you and I'm staying. You didn't speak to me for nine years and I couldn't stop loving you. I'm not going to stop now, when I actually fucking _have_ you." He pulls back and slips a hand down until he can pat my belly. "So that's what you can tell the pit in your stomach."

"I never want to leave you, either." The word _never _scrapes with sheer terror, at how much I'm afraid that's something no one can promise. I catch my breath on a sob, the tears springing loose and sliding down my cheeks despite my best efforts. "I don't deserve you."

He smiles, his eyes gentle and lit up as if from deep within. "That's the thing, Veronica. I just don't care."

He takes my hands up to drape them behind his neck and tips his forehead against mine.

"You can keep bracing for the worst, and hating yourself for lashing out, in a cycle that never ends. Or you can let yourself soften, and trust someone—even just one person—not to hurt you. And _please_, Veronica. Let it be me."

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THE END

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_Author's Note: If you'd like more fixes to S4, I'm going to tackle 4x03 next. That fic will be called Ecstasy..._


End file.
